


Dark, Thick Blood

by Revenant



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 1000-5000 Words, Angst, Complete, Episode Related, M/M, Slash, canon-tv, gordon walker/sam winchester - Freeform, over 1000 words, season two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-30
Updated: 2007-07-30
Packaged: 2017-10-07 13:38:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Revenant/pseuds/Revenant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>2.03 (Bloodlust) Things are falling apart and nothing makes that more clear than the blood covering Dean and the dangerous look on his face. Sam wants his brother back, and he wants Gordon gone, and he has every intention of telling the man that but somehow things just don't go as planned. This fic assumes that Dean returned to the motel to change after being covered in vampire blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dark, Thick Blood

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is the result of giftyou poisoning my brain. The whole conversation started innocently enough, about Gordon and how he's relatively harmless as evil-guys go and that we both love to hate him. And then I said that just because I love to hate him, didn't mean I was gonna write slash about him, and she said I could -- which of course got my evil brain thinking about it. She said Dean/Gordon would make more sense, because Sammy clearly didn't get along with Gordon, but that Sam and Gordon might be hot, and then she said 'dare you', and, y'know, I can't really back-down from something like that. So here it is.

There should be thunder and rain and lightning. The deck should be reverberating with the sounds of worlds breaking apart, and chaos should be looming in the air. There isn't any of that. Instead he stands across from his brother and looks him straight in the eye and tries to ignore the blood.

He can't.

Little red dots spatter across a familiar face contorted in an unfamiliar expression -- a dark parody of the freckles that Sam used to count teasingly when he was young. Laughter is filling the air, out-of-place and disturbing when his brother looks like a stranger and there's a mutilated body separating them, but Gordon's ringing voice is clear and low and he claps a hand on Dean's back, says 'Goddamn, that was beautiful!' and there's something in Dean's eyes when he turns and offers a triumphant smirk that makes Sam's hackles rise although he can't place a name to what he's seen in them. It's all wrong and he wants to leave, wants to turn around and turn back time and go back to the beginning. But then Gordon mentions the drink and Sam knows that whatever this is he's seeing -- whatever Gordon has suddenly become in Dean's head, it's not finished yet, hasn't played-through yet, and there is no real way for him to cut it off before it gets started because it's already begun: the blood on Dean's face and the look, and that flash of something in his eyes when Gordon gives praise.

"Maybe head back to the motel first, clean-up a bit, yeah?" he asks, and Dean gives him a perplexed look, and then follows his gaze down and sees the blood, looks at it like he's surprised to find it there.

"Good point," he says, shrugs a bit at Gordon.

It's not the escape Sam had intended it to be because Gordon has a room in their motel and flashes a knowing smirk at Sam when they separate to return to their rooms and Sam almost snarls. Instead he shuts the door and locks it, turns to find Dean pulling-off his T-shirt, the flannel he'd had on already cast-off in the general area of the bed he'd claimed. "Dean."

"Yeah?" Dean asks, his head lost in the shirt for a moment, and Sam's eyes drag down the muscles of his brother's back, the smooth skin glowing in the lamp-light, sheened with sweat. Dean's jeans are riding low and he's already working to kick-off his boots. It's familiar and safe, and Sam can almost pretend that the night never happened, but then Dean casts the shirt aside and looks over his shoulder, expectation written across his face -- visible through the spatter of red.

"I just --"

"Oh no," Dean says, a long-suffering sigh. "This isn't one of those 'We need to talk' moments, is it? Because I gotta tell ya, I'm really not in the mood for that right now." Sam can read the veracity of that in Dean's eyes -- dark and troubled, confused and aching. Dean isn't the person Sam needs to say this to, anyway. He can take care of Dean after Gordon goes away. Sam is good at handling his brother's aftermaths -- or he was -- he hasn't had much cause for staying in practice, but if ever there was a time, it's now.

"No, I just -- you know, never mind."

"Sam, what?"

"Nothing. Have a shower or something, you stink." It's weak, but Dean's distracted enough to let it go. He shrugs and grabs his shower-kit from his bag before disappearing into the bathroom. As soon as the door closes, Sam collapses onto his bed, his elbows on his knees, and his hands in his hair. It's a mess, everything is a mess, and he should have known better -- should have seen just how bad Dean was hurting long before that moment, could have avoided a whole lot of trouble if he had. Dean's open and vulnerable, and looking for just about anything to smother that gaping wound that's been hemorrhaging since their dad died. Sam sees Gordon as dangerous and manipulative, but Dean's just desperate enough, just empty enough to maybe not care.

 

...................................

 

Gordon opens the door easily enough, and though Sam has a general rant in mind – a list of complaints arranged in his head in order of priority, starting with: "Back the hell up off my brother" everything goes out the window right about the time that Gordon's smirk takes-on an edge like one of Dean's daggers. He gets maybe seven angry sentences out before Gordon moves faster than Sam's anger allows him to register, and then there isn't much he can do.

"Easy," Gordon says, purrs right into Sam's ear. Sam can't move, Gordon has him pinned to the wall, his arm twisted behind his back and if he struggles he knows it will snap. Gordon's breath is hot on Sam's neck and he's mad and wants to lash-out and shove the man back but there's something else, too. Something that Sam doesn't want to admit but doesn't think he'll be able to avoid much longer. "You're worried about your brother," Gordon says, talks as if they're having a normal conversation over a couple of beers, as if his words aren't poorly masked caresses of air across Sam's skin. "That's admirable. You're a good man, Sam Winchester. Anyone with two eyes can see that he's falling apart. He's vulnerable."

"Don't talk about Dean like that."

"You mean, don't tell the truth?" Sam jerks his body back but it doesn't jostle Gordon, instead he receives an answering press of hips, feels Gordon's cock -- thick and long -- through the combined barrier of their jeans. He sneers and winces and presses closer to the wall -- tries to keep his body still. Tries not to rest against the warmth. "You boys have something real special. A good bond between you." Sam feels Gordon's nose skim across his skin -- up his neck and burying into his hair. "Does he know about you, I wonder?"

"Know what?"

 

"Don't play stupid, Sammy. We both know you're anything but. It's in the way you look at him, in every move you make around him."

"You gonna keep me pressed against this wall all night?"

"Change the topic, that's good. Proves my point."

 

"You have a point?"

Gordon's fingers knot in the back of Sam's hair and jerk him back, arching, still pinned against the wall. "You want to know what I'd do with your brother?" It's not exactly a question, and Sam isn't exactly in a position to answer. He's hard and he's aching and his blood's pumping with adrenaline.

"No," Sam says.

"Ah," Gordon says, because he doesn't believe him, because he can spot a lie when he hears one. "Come on, Sammy. Don't be like that." His hands are all over Sam but Sam can't bring himself to move, he can think of seven different ways to break-free of Gordon's arms but all he does is stand still.

"Stop," Sam says when Gordon's fingertips skirt just below the band of his jeans.

Gordon's smile is all dark amusement and he presses it into Sam's neck so Sam can feel the line of wet lips against his skin. "Okay, Sammy. I'll give you one chance. Tell me to stop and I will." Sam is silent, he lets his eyes fall closed and tries to put an end to the shivers running through him. He's hot and he's cold and he's aching for more, for touch, for anything. "See," Gordon says when the silence stretches. "I don't think you can."

"Why's that?" Sam asks, surprised that he wants an answer; that he honestly can't understand on his own.

"Because you can't help Dean, Sam. Not the way you are – not when you're as broken as he is. It's a funny thing about brothers, you're so used to having him there to pull you up when you fall, and that works both ways. What happened to your daddy is a real shame, but however broken your brother is, you're almost as broken."

"And you want to fix me?" Sam asks doubtfully.

"It's not about fixing anybody. It's about taking what you can get." Gordon grins, his expression feral and Sam finds less anger in him and more of something else. "I think you know what I really want," Gordon says.

Sam has nothing that he can say because everything Gordon has said is exactly what he's been thinking since Dean was released from the hospital. Sam can't be there for his brother because he has his own issues surrounding their dad's death, his own guilt overwhelming him. He's brimming with regrets and as much as he wants to hold on to Dean – the last thing he has left – that's how much he feels incapable of giving Dean what he needs.

"Do it," Sam says, and squeezes his eyes closed. He had so many things that he came here to say to Gordon, not the least of which was for the man to leave Dean alone, to just let him be because he's confused and aching and can't take someone screwing with his head at that moment. Instead, he finds himself pressing down onto a bed, his face resting against sheets that smell strongly of bleach, held down by a heavy weight settling onto his back and hips that move close and then away in a steady rhythm.

There's no one in the room but he and Gordon. No one to know what happens, no one that knows anything of import about Sam, no one who can read him with a glance, no one who knows what to expect from him. Sam finds himself letting go for what feels like the first time in years. "Please."

"That's right," Gordon purrs. "I bet your brother begs real nice. I'd hold him down just like this – make him want it. Make him crave it." It's crazy, but Sam can almost see it – can almost see Dean with his cheek against the sheets, his green eyes glazed and his freckled features backlit by a flush of desire. He can almost hear Dean's roughened voice begging for it, and Sam feels a curl of desire in him rise for that image – for Dean.

Hands work their way up under his shirt and he wriggles, helps shuck the shirt off and lies still as Gordon's hands move in a slow trace from his hips up along his sides and up into his hair, fisting it loosely – keeping his head down. And then Sam can feel Gordon's naked chest against his back – can't remember when Gordon removed his shirt and not caring because the other man is sucking at the base of his neck. It will leave a mark, Sam knows.

He's sweating, and Gordon is a hot press of flesh against him, he twists his head in the other man's grasp – turns enough so he can look behind him and see Gordon kneeling astride him, his jeans and belt open and his cock arching upwards, cradled in a large dark hand. "Your brother doesn't seem the type for foreplay." Sam tries to think – tries to clear his head. In any of his fantasies, he's always taken his time, has always worked Dean into a frenzy and then taken him slow, it's the way Sam thought it should be done – slow and relentless. As he lies there, though, all Sam wants is to be filled. He wants to be held down and taken rough enough to remember he's not in control – doesn't have to be. He wonders if that's what Dean feels, now that their father is dead – like he has no one to let go with, no one who can take-over the control. Sam has always been the little brother in Dean's eyes, the one that needs protecting. He's not sure that will ever change, but he wants it to.

Gordon's hands slipping beneath his body jerks Sam's attention back to the room as he works at Sam's jeans, lowers the zip and pulls Sam's jeans and boxers down to rest partway down his thighs. His legs are trapped and he can barely spread them, but Gordon seems unconcerned. He licks from the crease of Sam's ass up passed his shoulder blades and ends with a firm bite on Sam's right shoulder. "You ever lain under a man before, Sammy?"

"Fuck," Sam breathes. He can feel Gordon's cock wet and warm and rubbing against the round of his ass. He fists his hands in the sheets and arches upwards involuntarily. He wants Gordon inside him, wants it now and without delay. Wants to be stretched and held open and taken. He wants to forget about blood and brothers, wants to forget how something so familiar can turn foreign.

"I bet Dean has. I think your brother has taken it before, just like this." Gordon doesn't play the gentleman. The cock shifts away and before Sam can mourn its loss there are two fingers pressing into him, slick with something that Sam can't identify but it's thick and eases the way. He tilts his hips and tries to accommodate the stretching, prodding fingers and then his entire body jerks and he's moving without conscious thought because Gordon has found something inside him and it's making his vision spark. He's groaning and pressing back – wriggling against the jeans that are keeping him restrained.

"Fuck," he says. "Fuck, now. Do it now."

"He'd beg real pretty for it, too," Gordon says. Sam can't get the image from his mind – of Dean lying on the bed in their hotel room, of his glowing freckled body writhing as Sam keeps him pinned, teases him with a ruthlessness that would show him once and for all that Sam can do this, that he can hold his own and pull his own wait and take care of Dean. "What would he say, Sammy? Tell me."

"Please," Sam says. "Please. I need you inside me." And the fingers are gone and something bigger is breaking him open, stretching him and he feels it – an aching pain that is almost a pleasure in itself. There's nothing he can do against it – Gordon's slick but he's big and Sam isn't used to this, and he's barely been stretched and he can't spread his legs far enough apart or shift to accommodate it because his jeans are keeping him closed and Gordon's holding him down, and Sam's starting to think that nothing could be more perfect.

Sam shifts his arms beneath his chest, lifts off the bed because this way he can press his hips back into Gordon's thrusts. There is no pause – there's the burning stretch and then Gordon is jerking his hips – forward and back – and Sam hears Dean's grunts and Dean's panting breaths, and he's moaning low and long and he's pressing back into every long, deep push and he's boneless, his head dropping down – forehead against the sheets that smell less like bleach and more like sweat and sex with every passing second. His toes are curling and his fingers clenching and his eyes squeezing shut and his head goes back and he's not sure if it's his own body that moved it or if Gordon has tugged back on his hair and he doesn't care because Sam's coming in thick streams onto Gordon's bed and Gordon's still thrusting inside him taking what he wants even as Sam slumps against the bed.

There's a stuttering of hips and Gordon bites Sam's shoulder again – same spot, and it leaves Sam wincing through the haze of his orgasm – and then Gordon comes. Sam can tell, even through the condom he can feel it, and then Gordon collapses onto his back.

They lie there, catching their breaths and neither quite able to move, and then Gordon claps Sam's ass and pulls out and Sam grimaces and starts to think that maybe this wasn't the best idea – because Dean will be able to see it in him, what he's done. Gordon tosses the condom in the general direction of the motel's garbage and flops down onto the bed and Sam rolls off the other side of it, snatching-up his shirt and trying to think. He smells like sex, he's sweaty and he's flushed but if he showers, Dean will wonder where he went to do it, and he can't tell his brother he went to Gordon's. "Get dressed," Sam says as he hurriedly pulls his jeans up and pulls his shirt over his head. "We'll meet in the bar in twenty minutes." He knows he can shower that fast – faster even, but he needs the time to think. The bar isn't that far from the motel.

He's at the door when Gordon's voice stops him. "What we did – it's nothing to be ashamed of, Sammy."

Sam smirks back at Gordon's knowing, teasing, smirking expression. "Who said anything about being ashamed?" He closes the door and stuffs his hands in his pockets, makes sure he takes a few steadying breaths and takes enough time crossing back to his room that the sweat is dried slightly by the cool night breeze. He pushes open the door and Dean's sitting on the bed, idly flipping through channels on the TV.

"Where've you been?" Dean asks. "We're late, Gordon's probably waiting." Sam doesn't slow or even look at his brother, keeps his head low and walks straight to the bathroom, not even looking to pick his clothes from his case. He lifts a hand and waves it vaguely to acknowledge Dean. "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing, Man," Sam says. "I'm gonna shower."

"Well, hurry it up." Sam closes the door behind him.

 

...................................

 

Gordon's got a table and drinks for each of them when he and Dean walk into the bar. He has a big, knowing grin and Sam watches as those dark eyes rove over Dean's body. Dean doesn't notice, he laughs and takes-in all of Gordon's praise like he's been starved for it – Sam thinks maybe he has been. Starved for any kind of praise, because it's not like their dad ever gave it freely.

Sam frowns at his beer and tries to make sense of everything. Dean looking for something – anything – to fill John's place, more desperate and broken than Sam had even anticipated. And Sam caught in a whirlwind of feelings for his brother. He wants to head out of Red Lodge, he wants to get on a different hunt far away from here that will take them away from Gordon because he doesn't have any chips left to bargain with the man. He tried to strike a deal with the devil and the tables were turned on him instead. A cold shiver runs down his spine and he tries to imagine what Dean will become if they stay with Gordon for much longer. Stitched-up and artificially heals but ultimately as twisted as Gordon himself.

"You alright, Sammy?" Dean asks, his frown open and honest his eyes full of nothing but concern.

"I'm fine," Sam lies. It's clear that Dean doesn't believe him, the look says clearly that he'll let sleeping dogs lie at least until Sam's ready to spill.

"Well, lighten-up a little, Sammy," Gordon says, smiling but his tone brings back memories of what happened just before, and Gordon's eyes are dark and knowing and Sam feels almost like he's standing in the middle of a crossroads.

He tilts his head towards his brother and says firmly, "He's the only one who gets to call me that." Gordon's expression doesn't openly change, but Sam can see in the man's eyes that he gets the message, that there's no settling or taking what he can get instead of taking what he wants. That Sam isn't prepared to give-up or call it quits or stop being bull-headed or stubborn.

"Okay," Gordon says, smiling casually and easily. "No offence meant. Just celebrating a little." But Sam knows, there's nothing to celebrate. His brother's slipping through his fingers and Sam has to figure-out how to close his fist before there's nothing left to salvage.

 

\----------------------------------  
The End:


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